


Face of heaven so fine

by Siff



Series: Doors, doors, so many doors... [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angel fic, Gen, I blame childhood movies, Its just silly fun, Kinda, Sorry Not Sorry, im not sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3424889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siff/pseuds/Siff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men have come to collect D’Artagnan. He still refuses to think of them as angels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Face of heaven so fine

It took a few seconds to sink in. And d’Artagnan still had to ask again.

“I am dead? As in… _dead_ -dead?”

The two men (he still refuse to think of them as angels) both nodded simultaneously. His knees then began to shake.

“He’s going to faint,” said the biggest of them. The other one shook his head.

“He can’t. Or else we would get any of them upstairs.”

And that didn’t help at all. He reached out behind him, trying to find anything to keep him from falling, but his hand never met the brick wall he knew was behind him. He looked back and saw how half his arm was gone, disappearing _into_ the wall.

He did not panic, not at all. He did not yelp like a scared dog, or jump backwards right into the two guys. Nor did he scream when he saw himself, lying on his back where he had just stood and stuck his _freaking arms through the wall_ , with blood all over him. Dead.  

The big… man was right. He could not faint, but he was pretty damn close.

It took a while, a long while. But slowly, very slowly he calmed down enough to see and stand straight again. The two men took it in a stride, not getting overly bothered by his reaction; actually they seemed a little amused.

Around his dead body – oh god – was a clustering of people. Some folks who had stopped and tried to save him, the driver and very soon some medics, calling out to clear the space, all gathered around him.

He was dead.

“Fucking hell!” he groaned and hid his face in his hands, not wanting to see them load his body into the ambulance. He jumped a mile when a large hand landed on his shoulder, and he made a sound very like a mouse being stepped on.

“Sorry, pal,” the large man said, a grin on his face and kind look in his eyes, “But we have to go. Unless you wanna be a ghost and all that.”

“What?” was all he managed to say. The other man groaned and shook his head.

“Porthos…”

“What, it’s true. I mean it, we gotta go.”

“Go where?” he actually felt silly for asking. The men had wings after all. The big one grinned, this time like a cat that had eaten a canary.

“First thing first, Porthos.” The other man pulled out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and took a good look at it. D’Artagnan also looked at the paper. The big one, Porthos, noticed this and patted him on the shoulder.

“Technicalities,” he said, “Gotta make sure you end up in the right place.”

“W-What?” d’Artagnan stammered, “There’s a wrong place.”

“No, no,” Porthos said, “there are just different divisions.”

Right, divisions. Right. Okay, he was calm. Totally calm.

“So,” said the other man, “Charles d’Artagnan, twenty-two years old, killed by a truck the 25th of Juli. Division Ten. Am I right?” he looked up expectedly, eyebrows raised.

D’Artagnan didn’t know what to say. He just gaped like a stranded fish. The man nodded, thankfully taking it as a yes so he didn’t have to say anything. He stuffed the paper back into his pocket. “All right then. Shall we?”

He held his hand out to d’Artagnan who stared at like it might bite him.

Porthos seemed to take pity on him. He gently smiled and touched his arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry, lad. Everything is going to be alright.”

And d’Artagnan believed him. But what about his dad? And his friends? They were going the watch the game that night.

The doors to the ambulance closed and it drove off with his body. He felt lightheaded. His body was gone. He didn’t like it.

“If you want to stay, that’s your choice.” Said Porthos, but in a way that clearly suggested nothing good would come from that.

“He’s right.” Said the other man, “But you have to decide now.”

So he did. With thoughts swirling and a crushing sadness filling him, he took the man’s hand. The giant wings twitched slightly and he was blinded by a sudden light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“So,” said Treville, an older looking man with a fine beard, and looked into the largest book d’Artagnan had ever seen, “What do you want to do up here?”

“Ehhh…”

Treville turned a page in the book and reached for a pair of glasses, “You have several options. You can choose to apply for rebirth, or work with the bible-editorial board. Then there’s harp-making, wing-care.” and so on he continued listing off all the things d’Artagnan could do in the next thousand years. Secretly he had already chosen, even if he didn’t know it.

“What are Porthos and Aramis.” He had learned the other man’s name later, after they had left him at the introduction meeting.

Treville looked at him with a knowing smile and took off his glasses. “If you want to be an archangel you’ll have to work for it. It takes years of studying and training before you can get your wings.”

D’Artagnan smiled. He didn’t mind, as long as he could be with Porthos and Aramis. Those two made it all seem a little less horrible. Treville understood and d’Artagnan was signed up for class.

When he left Treville’s office, he went in search of Porthos and Aramis. It didn’t take long. Despite the size of the place, he always found what he searched for after a few minutes.

Porthos and Aramis were standing in a hallway, talking with an angel d’Artagnan didn’t know. A young man, though age was a tricking thing up here. He had dark hair and beard, and a very small smile on his lips as Porthos gestured wildly with his arms, clearly telling a story.

He looked like any other angel, except for his wings. All angels had them, and two pair never looked the same. Archangels had the largest, bright white and with elegant feathers. But this man’s wings were steel-gray, and nearly black where they sprang from his back.

D’Artagnan had never seen wings like that, and even though he was new, he had seen quite a few things up there.

The three angels were deeply into Porthos story, and d’Artagnan wondered if he should just tell them later, but then Aramis spotted him and called him over.

“Good thing you found us,” he said and gestured to the grey winged angel, “I want you to meet someone.”

D’Artagnan walked closer, smiling a little shyly to the strange angel, whose smile had disappeared like it was never there to begin with. But his eyes were bright and he looked curiously at d’Artagnan.

“Picked up another stray, I see.” Said the angel, and even though his expression was calm, there was a warmth in his voice that made d’Artagnan smile.

“This young man is d’Artagnan,” said Aramis and clapped him hard on the shoulder, “we collected him two weeks ago. D’Artagnan, this is Athos, he’s an archangel like us.”

D’Artagnan and Athos shook hands. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” said Athos and then looked up, eyes suddenly distant, “Treville is calling. I better go.”

“Tell the old man I’ll bring in my report tomorrow.” Said Aramis. Athos nodded and said goodbye to them, before he spread out his dark wings and took off.

D’Artagnan looked after as he disappeared into the clouds above them.  

“So, d’Artagnan, how are you?” asked Porthos and gesture for him to walk with them down the hallway.

Smiling, d’Artagnan said, “I talked with Treville, I’m signed up to be an archangel.”

Porthos barked out a laugh and Aramis smiled. “Great idea,” he said, “I think you’ll fit in quite well.”

…

Despite having training and classes, d’Artagnan used every opportunity to hang out with the other three angels. They quickly became his closest friends, even Athos who he had some trouble reading, and they let him into their tightly knit circle.

It took him a long time before he dared ask about Athos wings. He had learned about them in class. They were not uncommon, just rare. Clipped wings, they were. A punishment for those who had broken one of the twenty rules an archangel had to follow no matter what.

Athos could never leave this place, not like the others could. Not unless with special permission, and even then he had restrictions.

It was hard to imagine Athos having broken any kind of rule. He just didn’t seem like the kind. D’Artagnan really wanted to ask, but it still took months before he dared.

It wasn’t until the night before his first exam that he gathered is courage to ask. All four of them had gathered to wish him good luck. They had brought vine, even though it was hard to get drunk, and it really spoke of Athos dedication that he actually managed it.

After a few hours he sat slumped against the wall, wings fluttering slightly as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Porthos shook his head and pried the cup out of Athos hand.

It took a few more hours and few more cups before d’Artagan finally asked them.

They both looked darkly at each other, then at Athos, each other again and then finally at d’Artagnan.

“He won’t like us telling you, but I guess…” mumbled Porthos. Aramis sighed.

“You must have guessed by now that they clipped his wings.” He said and D’Artagnan nodded, “Yes, well, he broke the rules and they punished him for it.”

“Which rule?”

“Rules, actually.” Said Aramis and d’Artagnan widened his eyes.

“He had an assignment,” said Porthos gravely, “A woman. Poor fool fell in love.”

D’Artagnan looked at the sleeping Athos, his heart aching for him. Poor Athos. Falling in love with ones assignment was quite common for archangels, even though it was the worst rule to break. But that alone wasn’t enough to have ones wings cut. And Aramis had said rules. How many more had Athos broken for that woman, he wondered.

…

The next day, d’Artagnan got his assignment, the one he had to help to pass his exam. Treville smiled and handed him the seal he needed to come and go as he pleased, even without wings. His friends wished him luck and he suddenly found himself back home in London.

It was amazing. No one could see him and he could pass through solid wall like they weren’t even there. He had been given a small piece of paper with the information he needed, and he quickly found his way to a little tailor shop in Soho.

He went inside and looked around the shop, and then he saw her. Beautiful and with long, curly hair, she stood with a length of fabric over her arm and talked to a customer. D’Artagnan felt his heart flutter weirdly when he saw her. He looked down at his paper, seeing both her picture and name written clearly.

She was his assignment. _Constance Bonacieux._


End file.
